


Hello Hello Baby

by littledust



Category: Telephone (Music Video)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honey B and Lady G, from prison to escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Hello Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keysmash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysmash/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, dear pinch hitter! I hope you enjoy this. It is possibly the weirdest thing I have ever written, but the music video is also rather--unique.

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

Long ago, Honey B earned her nickname for the sheer audacity of her lies. The most accomplished liar can not only lay it on thick, but make the victim thank you for it while choking to death. Over the years, she’s tried to teach that particular subtlety to Gaga, but Gaga is all about getting in your face, repelling you even as she turns you on. Gaga is performance art for the masses; Honey B is all about the more personal performance art of pouring untruths in your ear.

The end result is that Gaga is the one shipped off to the Prison for Bitches, leaving Honey B free as a queen, but bored as all hell. Plus, the press is convinced that she knows something (rightly so, but they have no proof), and reporters just keep calling.

Her phone sings out, _Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood._ B picks it up right away. “Honey B, doer of sweet deeds,” she answers, eyeing herself in the mirror to make sure her eyeshadow doesn’t need a touch-up.

The woman on the other end chuckles. It could just be the quality of the line, but it sounds rusty, like she forgot how to laugh a long time ago and doesn’t really remember. “I’ve got no favors to ask. In fact, I’m calling to do you a favor.”

“Tell me about this favor,” she says, having decided that her makeup is perfect. If she’s about to blow her savings on bailing her partner out of jail, she’s going to look perfect doing it. Maybe this favor involves vast quantities of cash.

“Now, you know I think your continued association with Gaga is a bad idea, Honey B. She’s an armada’s worth of loose cannons.”

“You’d know a lot about that.”

“Point taken. Anyway, since I’m sure you’re off to her rescue, I thought I’d lend you some wheels.”

“You don’t mean--”

“I do mean.”

“I’ll pick it up in fifteen minutes.”

*

Honey B roars up to Bank of America in the Pussy Wagon. The people walking in and out don’t bother to investigate the scene, even though she sewed two dollar bills to her miniskirt for the occasion. Philistines.

The bank is gray and blue and red inside, like the dingy underside of an American flag. Gaga would say that it’s all a metaphor for this corporate country. B just wishes the damn line would move already, though she does like the song drifting down from the loudspeakers. _We’re beautiful and dirty rich..._

B’s about to feel real rich for about ten seconds.

“I’m closing my account,” she says to the clerk, who is a gray little man with a little gray mustache.

“To where do you wish the money transferred.” He would be the sort of guy not to end a sentence in a preposition.

She spreads her hands on the counter, leaning in close. “I want it in bags of money,” she murmurs. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

The clerk is either gay or in serious need of a vision check, because he doesn’t bat an eye. “Miss, I’m afraid that is simply not possible.”

B looks up at the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and then counts to ten. _Daddy, I’m so sorry, I’m s-s-s-sorry,_ goes the loudspeaker. “Fine. I’m not closing my account. Tell me how much I have.”

The speech bubble that pops up above the clerk’s head reads **$1,000,001.16**. B considers this, then says. “Transfer the million to this account.” She rattles off the numbers, having memorized them long ago. This isn’t her first bailout.

“Bang, bang,” says Honey B, and struts off to her next errand.

*

The phone conversation with Gaga didn’t go well (hey, it’s not like it’s Honey B’s fault she got caught), but Honey B uses the last of the money in her bank account to buy a little treat and then waits for the Lady herself to glide out of prison and into the Pussy Wagon.

Even as she’s scolding Gaga for her naughtiness, B takes a moment to admire her hat. She’s never certain whether she loves Gaga’s image or Gaga herself, if there’s even a difference. There’s not a lot of room for philosophy in their line of work, though, and Honey B’s just fine with the way things are, even if she feels like she’s disappearing half the time.

“I sure will miss Sam,” Gaga muses.

“He sold you out and he’s going to do the same for me if we don’t take care of him,” B snaps, pressing down on the gas. Sam was her last bad decision before she teamed up with Gaga, the reigning queen of all bad decisions.

“That’s what I’ll miss about him. A girl likes to know where she stands.”

B takes the hint for what it is, leaning over to kiss Gaga in the middle of what passes for rush hour traffic out here. The other driver on the road slams on the brakes. The sound of a car horn joins the screech of tires. Gaga catches B’s lip between her teeth, sucking until B’s not sure she has any lipstick left. It’s an ugly kiss but it’s a sexy kiss, much like the lady giving it. She tastes like cigarettes, which she’ll burn, but she won’t smoke.

“I sure missed you, too, sweet thing.” When she’s feeling whimsical, Gaga makes up cloying nicknames for Honey B. It’s become their little joke over time, but B isn’t in the mood for it.

“Liar.”

“Takes one to know one, sugar.”

B reaches over and squeezes Gaga’s upper thigh, just enough to scrape her with her nails. “Well, now I have you to keep me honest.”

*

B could say that she had no idea Gaga was going to murder everyone in the diner, and she sure as hell could convince a jury of this “fact,” but the truth is, the God’s honest truth, is that she knew Gaga was out for lots of blood and just didn’t care. She was with Gaga when they picked up the supplies. She, better than anyone else, knows what Gaga is capable of.

She just likes Gaga’s style.

“This is what they call overkill,” she says, picking her way through the pile of bodies.

“My hair is ringing,” is Gaga’s response. She takes the telephone on her head off the hook. “Sorry, I cannot hear you, I’m kinda busy.” Then she removes her headpiece entirely and turns to B, all smiles. “Lookin’ fine, sugarplum.”

Honey B preens. Gaga’s style knows no equal save her own. These outfits are possibly their best work to date, along with the poisoning of an entire diner, right down to the dog. Still, Gaga doesn’t look quite as perfectly awful as she normally does. B studies her, then retrieves a bandanna from her toolkit. “Here. You need a little something.”

“Mm, I’ll give a little something,” Gaga purrs, leaning in for a kiss. B pulls away so she can tie the bandanna on her head, then grabs Gaga for a proper kiss that isn’t proper at all; more accurately, it’s hungry mouth and sharp teeth, barbed desire and toxic wanting. She fondles Gaga’s breasts through her top that’s more idea than clothing, and B thinks that she’s never been more turned on in her life.

“The dancers are here,” Gaga says, and B knows that this is to be continued. There are other priorities at stake here, other traditions on the line.

When you kill an enemy (and a whole lot of relative-but-not-really innocents), you throw a motherfucking dance party.

*

As they speed off towards Mexico, hand in hand, B can’t tell if her life is beginning or ending. Gaga is hanging out the window, hat and dress billowing in the wind, shouting her freedom for all to hear. B concentrates on driving into the sunset, which is streaking bright orange and red across the sky.

Maybe they’ll make it. Maybe they won’t. It’s all the same, and B’s going to see it through to the end.


End file.
